


Illusions of Perception

by newyorktopaloalto



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Gen, Ghost Ships, Ghost Stories, Minor Character Death, Supernatural Elements, Urban Legends, episodic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-06 17:32:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18393083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newyorktopaloalto/pseuds/newyorktopaloalto
Summary: Starfleet's 'Campfire Society' presents: The Tale of the USSPinafore.[An away-teams gets more than they bargained for whilst investigating a distress call.]





	Illusions of Perception

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DesertVixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertVixen/gifts).



> Thank you to Renee for reading over this as a Trek fan, and to my beta for helping me with the horror ambiance. Tried to make this as 'urban legend'-esque as I could, while incorporating ghost elements and some of the original Trek feel. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek, so please don't sue. 
> 
> I really hope that you enjoy this - thank you so much for reading!

“We're 2500 kilometers away from the ship, sir.” 

Spock nodded and said, “Decrease impulse power, Ensign Miller.” 

The shuttle trembled a little as Miller, only recently qualified to pilot one, disengaged the propulsion system too quickly. McCoy—who had stood up seconds before Spock's command—was on his way to the back to re-check his medical supplies, and ended up stumbling into the seat next to Uhura before he ended up on the floor instead. Churlish, he crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes at Spock; Spock replied with a sardonic raise of his eyebrow. 

“Are you alright, Doctor?” Uhura asked mildly, keeping her voice low so as to not be overheard by the two security personnel that they had taken along with them. 

“Fine, Lieutenant,” McCoy said, waving her away in further response. They sat for a little while before McCoy continued. “He does it on purpose, you know.” 

“Mister Spock?” 

“Well, I'm not talking about Ensign Miller.” Uhura couldn't quite stifle her smile at McCoy's answer. “He times these things out to annoy me the most before turning around and calling it logical.” 

They both knew that McCoy was being hyperbolic, but Uhura actually wouldn't have put it past Spock had he done something quite similar to McCoy's accusation at some point in their long history of away-missions with one another. 

“I assure you, Doctor, I do no such thing.” 

Uhura watched as McCoy's nostrils flared at the dry statement. 

“He also listens in on what are obviously private conversations.” 

McCoy and Spock started to idly bicker—one of their mutually shared and enjoyed pastimes—but Uhura had tuned them out in favor of watching out the front of the shuttlecraft as the ship they were approaching became clearer in the view screen. 

“Is that the USS _Pinafore_?” she asked the shuttle crew at large. The slowly rotating ship had seen better days—it was difficult to make out the registry through the stripped paint and asteroid impacted hull—but it was easy enough to see the defunct starship for what it originally was. 

“I think it must be.” Crewman Convington's voice came from directly behind Uhura; Uhura couldn't help but hear the note of consternation in his voice, but couldn't find any words to assuage Covington's obvious trepidation. 

“I heard a story about it once,” Covington continued, “as a cadet. It was one of the first Federation-sanctioned colonial ships, right?” 

“Nah,” Ensign Sanchez replied from her seat, “it was the first Warp 7.” 

“Baseless hypotheses, Ensign, do not an officer make.” Spock's pointed declaration stopped the two security personnel from speculating further. 

After a few long seconds, however, and some frantic gesturing behind Spock's back, McCoy gathered the rest of them—Uhura could not help her own curiosity as to what McCoy was going to say—around in a clump behind Miller's pilot chair. 

“Here's the story as I've heard it,” McCoy said, glancing back at the view screen for a moment before continuing. “107 years ago, the USS _Pinafore_ was sent out here to take scientific readings of the galaxy after a Boomer ship picked up strange signals coming from an unoccupied region of space. Even though it was one of the last Warp 6s, it was still faster than most of the ships in the fleet, so they loaded it up with scientists and shipped it out.

“This was, after all,” he continued, “in the early days of the Federation, so protocol with these sorts of things were more a lot more lax than they are now.” 

Uhura couldn't help but notice McCoy's drawl had become more pronounced the further he delved into the tale.

“While they're in the area, the Federation decides to mount a few more sub-space relays—to keep an eye on things, as it were. The first one, two, three—” He counted off the number slowly, and with an added finger to underscore his words, “—were placed fine. Reports were of a slow-going scanning process, but nothing out of the ordinary like the readings the Boomers had received. 

“Then, after two weeks of spotty reports, communication to Starfleet went fully dead. The Andorians, who were closest to them at that point, sent a ship to inspect the problem, but by the time they got there, the _Pinafore_ was gone—both as a signal and as a visual.” 

McCoy looked at the ship and shook his head—Uhura, who had truly believed him to be embellishing his story, felt a small pulse through her chest at his obvious discomfiture. 

“Until now,” Uhura said. 

Nodding once, curt, as he rubbed the heel of his right hand against his forearm, McCoy said, “Because we received a half-encoded distress signal.”

* * *

The away-team prepped their atmospheric gear in silence. Docking procedure had gone off without a hitch, a feat for a new pilot landing against the side of a derelict ship with out-of-date specs, but that didn't seem to make the looming visage any less foreboding. Titanic against their small shuttle, the rusting hull creaked frequently against the impromptu seal the _Enterprise_ crew had fashioned between their docking door and the _Pinafore_ 's. 

“Your story is illogical, Doctor McCoy,” Spock said as he watched Sanchez key in the security code to the small weapons locker. 

“It's the official story, Spock—what's not redacted, that is.” 

“Neither Starfleet nor the Federation use redaction as a matter of course.” Spock paused. “What should not be made known to the general public is simply marked 'Classified' with the security level needed to gain access.” 

“Well, you can check your PADD when we get back to the ship, then, can't you?” McCoy asked rhetorically, before jamming an earpiece into its correct position to interface with his atmospheric helmet. “But I looked into it one weekend as a greenie who didn't believe his RA.” 

“Were you drunk?” Uhura asked, rolling her eyes fondly at McCoy's blithe 'you're goddamn right, I was.' 

“Also, Mr. Spock, would you care to explain why a distress signal suddenly popped up when none had before?” 

Uhura could see that Spock had no interest in giving response to McCoy's bad-faith question, but as he watched Covington, Miller, and Sanchez look towards him in obvious scientific supplication, he must have felt the weight of his command settle onto his shoulders. 

“The most likely of explanations is simply that the distress call was automated, but the ship only had enough residual power to keep it sustained were the signal proximity-based. When the _Enterprise_ came within passive scanning range of it, the _Pinafore_ deployed its distress protocol.” 

He then met the eyes of every member of the crew—Spock's staid logic was comforting to Uhura, whose neck had started tensing in anxiety. It was her, after all, with the most important job on this away-team: decoding the distress signal—something that could only be done from in the hardware of the ship itself. 

“No detected biological signs.” After Spock had given McCoy a rational explanation—Uhura couldn't say whether or not McCoy believed the Commander—he had started taking readings with his medical tricorder. “Atmospheric readings appear to be consistent with emergency backup life-support.” 

“It would be pertinent to keep our own regulators until we can assess the conditions of the vessel.” 

“Agreed, Mr. Spock,” McCoy said. 

“Ensign Sanchez, you will accompany Lieutenant Uhura and I to the bridge. Crewman Covington, you will proceed to the medical bay with Doctor McCoy and assist him as needed. Ensign Miller, you will stay on the shuttlecraft as the liaison between the _Pinafore_ , our communicator frequencies, and the _Enterprise_.

“Once we proceed into the pressure-regulated docking bay, close and re-pressurize the shuttle only on my command.” 

Miller, who had just taken hold of the phaser Sanchez was handing out, gave a clumsy salute to Spock with his left hand; Uhura was unimpressed. 

“Doctor.” McCoy turned around from fastening his helmet to raise an eyebrow at Uhura. Her lowered tone, she knew, might have come off a little too overblown for the situation at hand. “The story—it doesn't make any sense.” 

“It doesn't make any sense, lieutenant, you're absolutely correct. That's why I don't think it's the real story,” McCoy replied, his mouth a firm line as he finished fastening his helmet to the suit. “But I think we're about to find out what is.”

* * *

With a dull thud followed post-haste by a mechanical whir, Miller closed the shuttlecraft door behind them. Emergency life-support was still on, but the small lights dotting the edge of the large docking bay was inadequate against the meters of open area. Uhura clicked on the inset shoulder light on her suit, and watched as the others clicked on their own one-by-one, until they were all back-lit by a blueish white haze. 

“Uh, sir?” came Miller's hesitant tone through the open comm line.

“Yes, Ensign?” 

“I can't get the—the shuttle won't re-pressurize. My screen says there's a systems failure on this end, but it can't determine the point of origin.” 

Spock's entire helmet shifted as he tilted his head in thought. 

There was a burst of static and the hull of the ship shook a little—the subsonic grinding of the deteriorating metal had, most likely, interfered with their open comm lines—and Uhura jumped a little at the noise. From McCoy's cut-off expletive, he had been startled as well. The lights on the ground flickered in time with the static, and she watched as both Spock and McCoy scanned the new readouts on their tricorders. 

“... should ce-... few secon-... -ot move...” Spock's command, though cut-out intermittently, seemed to be understood in full by the entirety of the away-team. Sanchez and Covington took up their tactical positions and, with practiced ease, set their phasers to stun.

Uhura heard her own breathing pitting itself against the crackling of the comms. She would have to regulate that before the interference went away. As, however, a flicker of a shadow caught her peripheral, Uhura's concern for how others might interpret her harsh breath felt inconsequential to making sure that what she was seeing was nothing more than a trick of the light—or lack thereof, as the lights then, with a final surge of effervescence, ceased operation entirely. 

The minute shaking of the ship, which had been so prevalent it had seemed as though the ship's inertial dampeners and artificial gravity had been on their final legs for quite some time, stopped—Uhura stumbled forward a step or two before catching her balance. 

“—ference is negligible now, Doctor.” 

“Okay, call out—who's not dead?” 

“Uhura,” she said. Her statement was followed by a 'Covington' and a 'Sanchez'. 

“Ensign Miller?” McCoy prompted. 

The open comm line, static now nothing more than a low hissing that Uhura knew she was going to get a headache from, remained silent. 

“Ensign Miller, report,” Spock said.

Another second went by before Miller responded to Spock's command. “Miller, here—sorry, sir, I must have blacked out for a second. That power outage fried some circuitry over here; if I could re-pressurize from this end before, I definitely can't do it now.” 

“Are all primary systems still intact?” Spock asked. 

“Yes, sir, there's no other problem.” 

“Re-route your scanning system into the _Pinafore_ 's—if there are any disturbances, contact both Doctor McCoy and I on your communicator.” 

“Aye, sir.” 

“This channel will remain closed to all communication barring an emergency. All other communication should be sent through private channels.”

In the darkened conditions, Uhura could only just make out Spock's gesture for Covington to follow McCoy, who had started his way to the medical bay the minute Spock had given his command. 

“Lieutenant Uhura, are you ready to proceed to the bridge?” 

“Yes, Mr. Spock.” 

“I shall lead the way. Ensign Sanchez, rearguard.” 

They started towards the bridge. Uhura, who wouldn't know which way to go about decoding the distress signal until they got to the communications console itself, kept a close eye and a close mind for any surprises that might be awaiting them in the corridors between them and their destination.

* * *

It was in another abandoned corridor—this one on deck 5, though by the utter lack of disparity between the decks, Uhura could only tell it apart by way of the small maps at its junctions—that Spock held up a hand as order to stop. 

After a tense minute with Spock in obvious communication with another member of the away-team, Uhura's comm line opened with a brief crackle. 

“Doctor McCoy,” came Spock's voice through the line, “relay the information you have just told me.”

“Well, Covington and I got to the med bay and—” Uhura heard a scuffle before McCoy shouted 'don't move!'. A high-pitched whining filled the comm line. 

“Covington's down. Got a little fried—overload when he plugged into the computer systems.”

“Condition?” 

Sanchez passed her and started to inspect the cabin door to their left. Uhura couldn't discern exactly what she was looking at, but by her careful once-over of the metal, it seemed to be of some import. 

“Unconscious, but stable.” 

“Then continue, Doctor.” 

“The short and long of it is that there's eleven bodies in here. I wasn't able to get an ID on any of them, but by the scans I took, I'm not really surprised by that—my initial data has shown that they most likely died from acute cellular degeneration.” 

McCoy exhaled heavily through the comm line. “There's nothing indicating that whatever caused this is still catching, but I would suggest staying suited up until I can get into the computer to run a full atmospheric diagnostic.” 

Uhura, who had been keeping a half-interested eye on Sanchez's actions, was a little surprised that she had taken her tricorder out and attached it to the small terminal on the side of the door. It was unlikely that they would be able to get through the door without force, but that didn't seem to stop Sanchez from dutifully keying through codes. 

“Very well, Doctor. Report back when Crewman Covington regains consciousness and—”

Uhura switched over to the other comm line. 

“Ensign Sanchez, why are you trying to get through that door?”

“I think there might be something here, lieutenant.” 

“What makes you think that?” 

She gestured for Uhura to come over. 

“Notice those?”

It was only when she pointed out the abnormality, that Uhura actually saw it—almost imperceptible to her, she could only assume that Sanchez had the ocular equivalent of her keen ear.

“The dents?” she asked. 

Sanchez nodded. “Someone was trying to break down this door. We need to find out why.” 

“Proceed, then, ensign.” Uhura stepped back to give Sanchez more room to work. “But if it comes to brute force, please notify either Commander Spock or I for proper procedure.” 

“Of course, Lieutenant Uhura,” Sanchez said, distracted as she turned her attention to the now blinking tricorder in her hand. Then she slapped the side of it—Uhura turned away to feign ignorance to Sanchez's willful mishandling of Starfleet property. 

Small patches of ambient light flickered around them, shadows cascading around everything that could be concealed. Uhura could almost taste the air in the corridor, metallic and stale, as a memory of archaeological decay filled her nose. She looked back over to Sanchez as a trick of the light made another one of the shadows move. 

“Is everything under your control, lieutenant?” 

“Yes, sir—Sanchez is attempting to get the access code to these quarters.” 

At Spock's querying brow raise, Uhura said, “There's dents in the door, and Ensign Sanchez believes it was from an attempt to gain unauthorized entry.” 

“A more logical explanation in regard to the dents would—” 

“Got it!” 

Before either Spock or Uhura could say anything to halt Sanchez's actions, she entered the code and they all could do no nothing but watch, silent, as it slid open.

* * *

There was a body, bones sunken in and skin in a semi-mummified state of decay, recumbent in the small Starfleet-issued bunk. In its hand was an early generation vid disk—Uhura didn't know much about people's final wishes when they knew their own death was inevitable, but she believed that an obviously proffered disk was significant for the deceased. 

“Should we—” she asked, taking two steps forward before glancing back for Spock's confirmation. He nodded, but told Sanchez to inspect the disk for any hidden mechanisms or traps before one of them pried it from the body. 

“Nothing here, commander,” Sanchez said, and her helmet bobbed once in a nod before she prised the disk from its holding. Handing it over to Spock, Sanchez proceeded to place herself between the door and the quarters. 

The computer took long seconds to power on—Uhura hoped the small amount of power available through the ship wouldn't fail in its entirety until they at least were done with their investigation—and when it did, it was with the motions of a machine on its last legs. 

Spock put the vid disk in. 

A woman, half of her face sagging in what must have been some of her final coherent hours of consciousness, appeared, shaky, on the screen. Her hair had fallen out in clumps, and when she opened her mouth, Uhura could see that most of her teeth were gone as well. She was rail thin and heavily bruised—as though everything she touched had made an indelible mark.

 _“If you're watching this, then I'm sure you don't know why and how we died,”_ the message began. The woman's voice was a whisper—to keep from being overheard, or because she couldn't speak any louder, Uhura was unsure—and her eyes darted uneasily from the screen to the rest of the room she was in. 

_“My name is Susan Park—I'm a geneticist. I was enlisted by Starfleet to—”_

A pounding interrupted Park, and after a few heavy thuds with Park flinching at every one, unintelligible shouting started to accompany it. 

_“They don't want me to tell you, loyal until their deaths.”_ She laughed. It turned into a choking cough and Uhura saw where blood had been hacked into her elbow. 

_“I knew what we were doing wasn't officially sanctioned, but I didn't think that they would just send us out to_ die _without even the means to do anything to circumvent it._

_“Starfleet killed us. Our experiment failed containment, and they sent us, in our coffins, on our final mission: to never let anyone know what happened._

_“Well, to hell with that. Here's what happened: Starfleet wanted to continue looking into genetics, even after the War. They hired us, we failed, and they didn't give us time to engineer a cure.”_

The pounding on the door had stopped; Park sagged in on herself. _“A couple of our more mechanically minded scientists managed to put together a kluge of a proximity-based distress call. Nothing will happen when any of us are still alive, but...,”_ she sighed and ran a hand through her hair—a clump fell out with the motion, _“but maybe someone will see it._

_“There's an attached file—it's a manifest of everyone on board. After all, you won't be able to ID any of the bodies.”_

The message ended there and the disk popped out of the computer. Spock pocketed it. 

“There was never anything to decode,” Uhura said, unable to stand the silence in the room any longer, “it was just to get someone on the ship, to get someone to see what had happened and have enough curiosity to look further.” 

“Nothing more than a last-ditch effort,” Sanchez added. 

A crackle came through the comm line. McCoy's voice was weary as he said, “Covington's dead. The shock triggered an undiagnosed heart problem. He went tachy three minutes ago, and was in cardiac arrest before I could even get a damn hypospray into him. I did the best I could, but I don't have the equipment—they shipped out with nothing more than a couple of bandages and a box of morphine.” 

“Doctor McCoy?” 

McCoy stopped his tirade. 

“Make your way back to the docking bay—we will meet you there shortly. Bring with you any relevant data you have acquired as to the condition of the deceased crew.” 

“What about Covington?” 

“The body will not be able to fully decontaminate once we get back to the ship—you will leave it here.” 

McCoy's 'aye, aye, sir,' was unidentifiable in its tone but Uhura could hazard a guess that he wasn't happy about leaving the crewman there. But what was one more body in an already occupied grave? It wouldn't even be the first—or second, or third—that the _Enterprise_ crew had dealt with in their five-year mission. And it wouldn't be the last, Uhura was sure of that.

* * *

Spock's third 'Ensign Miller' came and went without a response, the crackle in the earpiece the only indication that he was transmitting on a clear channel. In quick motions, he started the process of re-pressurizing the cabin from the hardware unit on the side of the docking bay. 

“Keep your atmospheric suits on until we go through decontamination processes on the ship.” 

There was a low thrumming noise—Uhura could feel it coming up through her feet—and she popped her jaw to relieve some of the vibrations coming up from the hull and into the floor around them. 

“Ensign Miller? Ensign Miller, respond.” Uhura knew she wasn't going to get an answer. 

Even before they stepped into the shuttlecraft—Spock first, then McCoy, Uhura, and Sanchez in the rear—Uhura had a feeling as to what they would find. 

“A breach in his atmospheric suit,” Spock said unnecessarily; McCoy, despite the obvious frigidity of Miller's face, knelt down beside the body and checked for life signs. 

There was a rip in the leg of the suit, and the obvious signs of a hasty journey for adhesive. It was too large, too quick, for Miller to do anything about. His death would have been painless enough—despite the dread of knowing in just a few seconds he would be dead. 

“He's dead.” 

“Should I haul him out to the docking bay?” 

Sanchez's voice was inscrutable—the deaths had obviously hardened her resolve to the point it had been at months ago, before the death of her second and the injury that had waylaid her for weeks under McCoy's caustic, but ultimately useful, care. She didn't pretend to be particularly close to Sanchez, but the gossip on the _Enterprise_ made for one of the few pastimes that a person couldn't help but partake in every now and again. 

“Yes, ensign. I shall assist you.” 

Uhura switched over to a private channel with McCoy. 

“They were messing around with genetics.” 

McCoy nodded. “That's what I got from my scans. At least it was pointing that way.” He shrugged. “They solved it—in theory, of course, they didn't have any of the tech to actually create the thing.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah—a few of them took over the med bay about halfway through. They basically created a damn retrovirus. Ingenious, really—they knew they wouldn't be able to save themselves, but they wanted to help anyone else who might make the same mistake.

“I can see why Starfleet hired them.” 

Uhura's 'yeah' was delayed, unable to tear her eyes away from the flickering shadows she could see in what little ambient light shone through the system, slowly puttering along over one hundred years since its inhabitants had died. 

It would become immediately red-tagged classified, of that Uhura was sure, and it was unlikely that any of their names would actually be released to their descendants, but she could make a copy of the data during official transcription. 

She could keep them alive for as long as she, herself, was. 

The emergency lights of the USS _Pinafore_ started to flicker on and off, the away-team's presence no longer intruding on what little power the ship was managing to sustain—despite being a fan of scientific coincidence, Uhura couldn't help but feel as though it was a sign of approval. 

//

**Author's Note:**

> xoxo


End file.
